Barry's Last Chapter

After over forty years of alcohol, heroin, and cocaine abuse, my dad sobered up at the age of 58 for about five years. It was a miracle. No one could be left unscathed after the amount of debauchery he put himself through, but the trauma of my mother’s untimely death was what left him permanently dysfunctional. She overdosed in 2003, and eight years later Dad found himself shoeless on the side of the road baking in the hot Florida sun. He had been released from his last stint in jail with no shoes and finally decided to throw in the towel. After making a phone call to a buddy that had cleaned up his life, he was picked up and taken to a militant sober living community of about sixty men, most of whom were straight from jail as well. He lived there for five years and absolutely thrived - considering the demons he would never be able to fully shake even in a state of complete sobriety.

My parents started dating around the age of 15, and were together until my mom died at age 49 from a heroin overdose. Needless to say, my dad was never the same. The crux of his suffering, and the fact that it would forever remain incurable, was that he was nodded out down the hall when my mom did her last shot of heroin. He had failed to save her life, or so he’s always thought, and would never forgive himself.

He got a girlfriend at the age of 63 after five years of sobriety, and shortly after started drinking. He’d never touch heroin or cocaine again, but alcohol would slowly destroy him over the remainder of his 60’s. He stopped eating, moving, volunteering, and did nothing other than sip whisky and watch television for about seven years. He now lays on his deathbed in a nursing home at the age of 70.

I just spent many days with him as he slowly approaches death, and I am left feeling more empty than ever. I’ve never loved another human more than him, and although he’s technically still alive, his vanishing coherence has left that human unrecognizable.

Over the past nine or so months I’ve known his death was imminent. Since September it became glaringly obvious, and I’ve felt like a lobotomite ever since. I can’t write. I can’t exercise. I can barely form a positive forecast about anything in the near future. If only I was a better son and rescued him out of Florida sooner is my constant mantra of guilt. I tried. He didn’t want to leave, nor could he. By the time he gave it an ounce of consideration his poor health would have made a cross-country move nearly impossible. I visited him a number of times during this period, all of which began with bouts of crying at witnessing his self-induced decline. After changing his diaper for the first time some months ago, I knew that he would breath his last breath in Florida.

My apologies for not writing much as of late. But I’ve made a commitment to change this in light of my dad’s transition. And despite the sadness of his untimely downfall, his life has been quite glorious - maybe not in a traditional sense, but his journey has been far more intriguing than most. So I’m going to write about him. More to come soon.